Who We Were (Who We Have Become)

Robin's Diner

Robin's Diner wasn't the best spot in town, or in town at all. Rather, six miles from Gravity Falls' borders; a ways off by foot, but hardly a concern with Pacifica's limousine on hand. It was a little spot, obscure on the side of the road, leading some place equally side-glanced, equally obscure. A modest restaurant not unlike Greasy's Diner; currently closed for repairs, what with the Goblin-sized hole in its walls, forcing the twins and their severely picky friend to seek service elsewhere.

Rows of double booths draped in red upholstery, checkered vinyl flooring and something that smelled like rubber when they set foot inside. The chef was the first thing seen when entering Robin's, being his station lay front-and-center for customers to observe his craftsmanship. Or, " Craps-man-ship," Pacifica mocked with a roll of the eye after Mabel's own ogling; Robin's hadn't been her idea. Not by a long-shot.

Dipper tucked his elbow into the edge of Pacifica's arm then- no force behind it. Hardly any heat. He'd always attest to being a bit more gentle handling girls, even terribly well-off Northwests who deserved it, and overwhelmingly sturdy Corduroys who could take it. Though, despite his own assurance, may actually lay in the fact that, at 14-going-on-15, Dipper was humiliatingly lithe. Even so, the curve of his jaw promised a slight compensation in size as time passed, or at least an edge to his bonny babyface.

Still, he'd elbowed her in all her snootiness, with a force "for girls," so when she went to glare at him in effect, he felt no guilt glaring back. Pacifica was a stubborn, pocket-sized boar, even as she'd spread her wings in rebellion against her parents; still old money. Always old money. Old money had a way about turning its nose up at things unlike caviar, or Salvatore Ferragamo, or a glass of Domaine de la Romanee-Conti on a long-awaited getaway to Normandy, France.

The last couple of years had been dedicated- on her part- to an exposure of sorts, into the wide, open ranges of countryside bumkins, spit-buckets and gas stations. In comparison to where she'd began almost two years ago, Mabel could easily attest to her progress. Dipper, however, pointed out -in comparison to ordinary people- she was still way, way behind. Mabel encouraged him to be patient with her. How could he, though? He'd never understood living in a mansion, served hand and foot, preened and trained the way she'd been. He'd never understood how- even drilled with the natural place of a Northwest, their inherent prowess, ect. ect.- someone could turn out so spoiled.

The look he gave her- the look she gave back- lasted only a moment.

Who dropped their gaze first- Dipper; It'd been Dipper - didn't rightfully matter. Not when Mabel trailed them like ducklings, hurrying towards an empty booth. They sat down in a flurry, Mabel having squeezed them all onto one side, so Dipper's leg hung off the cushion and Pacifica's hair tickled his ear. He turned, by which she mimicked, and gave her one last, cautionary glare for her attitude. Any other day, Pacifica would've bitten his head off, if it weren't the last night they'd be spending together until next summer. She let it pass, instead huffing an exaggerated sigh at the unyielding fabric she currently sat on. It wasn't worth testing the precarious existence that was their friendship, which- despite itself- was a rather strong bond.

If one or the other was just a bit softer around the edges, perhaps there could have blossomed something more.

The waitress came up with a pen and notepad; a fat miss with paper-thin hair, cropped face like a man, square in the chin, and sleek around the eyes. Her lips smeared pink despite tangerine complexion, loud with color. Betty was her name.

"Betty." Pacifica thought snidely. What a plebe name." Something self-satisfying reared its head inside her. She stifled a snort, instead asking if they served truffles and caviar.